


The Life and Days of England

by Kila9Nishika



Series: The Life and Days [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Because Countries/Nations don't really die, Character Death, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Name changing, Non-Canonical Characters who are sort-of Canonical, POV Third Person Limited, Teeny-tiny M/M pairing at the VERY end, They're sort-of phoenixy, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kila9Nishika/pseuds/Kila9Nishika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From infancy to World War II, this is England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life and Days of England

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philosophizes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/gifts).



> So, this version of WWII is not canonical, because I take things a bit more seriously than the actual show did.  
> The POV character is always the being who will one day be England|Arthur Kirkland.  
> Oh, and Khrummm is Rome. Just chibi!England mispronouncing it.
> 
> Names and meanings are at the end. 
> 
> Also - nine pages. NINE PAGES when I was supposed to be writing an essay. I blame you, Philosophizes, so I'm gifting it to you. :)

His earliest memory is foggy, full of crisp air and the splash of sea water.  Gentle eyes and the _chink_ of gold chain and the sweet smell of deep blue ceremonial paint and _Momma_ –

Tiny hands and pale skin lift him from the boat and strange hair the colour of midnight whirls around an oddly speckled face with red paint.  Silver shifts and hisses and this is _not Momma_ –

“Hsh, Llach, hsh.  I’ve got you.”

Splashes as the boats are returned to sea, and Llach is mesmerized by the pale, pale, pale green-blue eyes in the pale, pale, pale speckled face.

_Hsst_ of a rustle, and birds flutter and gather, black feathers and blacker feathers, and feathers that swallow what meagre sun there may be –

Feathers so very, _very_ soft, and a gentle, rolling song lifting him up into the silver-grey skies –

He is barefoot and slightly chilly, his hair bright with sun, when Ri – who is also Cymru, but the people call her Rigantona – introduces him to Others.

“Blessings, Llach,” hair like fire and hair like blood, eyes like grass eyes like stone, and two laughing, laughing smiles – “I am Maura” “And I am Aran” and

Ri just smiles, smiles like the face of the fullest moon, silvery and bright in her speckled face.  Red on white shimmers and she moves to scoop him up in a hug, and Maura and Aran both join the hug and –

Llach is so very, very happy, bright and shiny as his golden hair –

But then comes _Khrummm_ , tall and angry and with shiny swords and spears that make the wars of Ri’s peoples and Maura and Aran’s peoples seem like play.  Maura paints her face the grey-blue of Annwn, and Aran never goes without his arrows and quick-fire-stones.  Ri stands as tall as she can, and she’s shorter than Llach is now, but so fierce and bright and wild, red and green paint streaking her face, blood staining her white gowns.  The white mares step from the dust, and Aran’s Hounds are pale in a dusty-brown world and Maura shields the children as she fights, tears smudging her paint.

Ri protects him, her chin sharp and eyes sharper, and soon all of her gowns are blood-red, so very _very_ red –

And when _Khrummm_ cuts through her neck, staining her gown and face and spraying Llach, he can’t help but cry in horror at his sister, his mother –

Aran helps Llach carry Ri’s body, back to the tall mountains she loved. 

“Cymru has been felled.”  Aran’s voice was like a whip.  “But so long as Albain and Caledonia live, so long as Llach lives, She is never gone!”

Llach jumps when Ri sits up, but her eyes are sad and lost and she fades into the rock as the people disperse.  Fingering one of her amulets, a Moon Amulet, Llach takes a shaky breath –

“My name is now Lloer!”

And the fight goes on.

Khrummm leaves, but he leaves behind a bullying child with bright hair and dark skin who calls himself Basileus Britannicus, and Lloer spends every morn and night running paint through his hair in an effort to distance himself from the bastard with _his_ hair –

And then there is a battle, and Basil’s men capture Lloer.

He doesn’t know how long it is.  Was.  Is. 

Days.

Months.

Years?

All he knows is that he is carefully using this new _writing_ thing when there are shouts, and the guards go down, and a quill in the eye is as deadly as a sword in the gut – better, a crow’s feather quill – and Lloer runs runs _runs_ out to meet –

A wild-eyed Aran greets him, scarred and vicious, and they fight and fight and fight –

Basileus Britannicus is driven away, across the sea and probably gone forever.  They hope.

But the damage is done – Ri is pale and weak, leaning on the shoulders offered, and angry to have lost her own battles.  Maura is gone – across the Other Sea, towards The End of the World, settled with those who she had helped flee.  Aran is scarred and cut to pieces, missing fingers and toes and happiness –

Standing as tall as he can, Lloer rebuilds

And rebuilds

And rebuilds, a new person, a new people – the air is colder than it was a century ago, and snows come much too early, and Lloer calls himself Ionnrhi, but this world is so different –

Ionnrhi meets a new Other in these cold early years, a white-eyed, gold-haired woman with wolves and wild things about her.

“Skaði,” she calls herself.  “Sorry to intrude, but if you think your winters have been hard…”

But it isn’t just one winter, and Ionnrhi becomes Arðrhey becomes Ardaire becomes Artur –

Skaði eventually leaves, but her mark is strong and remains heavy – Aran is white-haired, now, and colder than Skaði’s snows, and Maura is Mora now, and long gone, and Ri is –

Dying.

“Llach…” she breathes, “A new world is coming.  Don’t – don’t get swept away…”  She’s a wisp on the winter’s winds, and a tiny woman with pale, pale, speckled skin and stormy black hair and blue-green eyes – is gone.

Draco – tiny, New Cymru, black hair and pale skin and storm-grey eyes – is born.

And Artur meets Normandy.

Normandy is, Arthur decides, an arse.  Generally, for what his people do to Arthur’s – there’s that sense, that the people of these lands, these _Saxons_ and _Anglia_ and _Frisia_ and _Brytons_ , they are _his_ – and specifically, because he is taller and broader and impractical and talks funny and likes _France_ and _Rome_.

Normandy’s name is Georges, but Arthur never deigns to refer to him so familiarly.  Thankfully, the arse returns to _France_ , where he belongs.

But Arthur’s land, _Angle-land_ , is different, now.  Aran finally faded away, replaced by Hamish-who-is-Scotland, and Hamish doesn’t like Arthur – alright, Arthur dislikes him right back – and Mora isn’t speaking with him since Ri died, and Draco is _just being mean_.

To honour Aran, who had spent his last days as _Father_ Aran (and wasn’t that odd, for such a wild, wild man?) Arthur takes a surname.

Kirkland.  Scots for “Church-land.”

The years are lonely and wistful, then.  Remembering Aran and Rigantona and Maura, and how _happy_ he had been before Rome came and _ruined_ it.

Brief meetings – Ana from the Saxony, Josef from the Empire, Enrique from Aragon...

Enrique marries a woman named Josefina, at some point.  They have a son, and his name is Antonio.

Hamish dies rather spectacularly, while consorting with both Enrique _and_ some Francis guy (alright, he _was_ France, but seriously!  What a _guy_.  All dressed up and flirtatious at the worst moments...)

Gunpowder.  Blows himself up.  Makes marvellous fireworks, and at least Arthur can _talk_ to Draco now without bloodshed.

Ish.

Then a baby is born.

He’s sweet and tiny and blonde and it takes Arthur no time to decide to swipe the poor child from the neglectful hands of _Francis_ and Enrique (and some others, but _really,_ ) and bring him home to Londinium.  London.  Whatever.

Remembering a personal favourite of his, Arthur calls the boy Alfred.  His heart aching as he remembers Ri, he swipes a common surname from Draco.  Wales.  Whatever

Alfred F. Jones.  (and hopefully nobody will ask after the F, which is even more soppy sentiment)

It’s joy like he can’t describe, like being a century old and running with Aran and Maura again, teaching Alfred reading and writing, Scripture and Legend, history and mathematics and philosophy –

But he can’t only focus on Alfred, much as he wants to, because his people are spreading him too thin across the globe and eventually –

Alfred is left lonely in Philadelphia, barely four feet and still growing, while Arthur struggles with an old woman and a young man in the Far East, and a dark-eyed woman who reminds him painfully of Ri in the South, and Enrique and Francis and the Others are pinching, biting, scraping, _hurting him_ –

The pain of betrayal when he discovers that Alfred has run away is the last straw.  While his people hold onto their already-failing empire, Arthur collapses in despair.

It takes over a century before a knock on his door summons him from his misery.

“Telegram.”

It’s short and simple.

STILL HATE FRANCIS STOP

I LIKE THOSE DOYLE SERIALS STOP

MISS YOU STOP

AFJ FULL STOP

He catches the next ship to New York.

Which sinks.

Typical.

America is now a world of loud noises and bright lights and strong smells and _rude people_ and bad tea and odd sports.  Arthur hates it.

But Alfred is bouncing on his heels, jabbering a kilometre a second, and bright as the sun.

Arthur loves that.

He’s so very happy when he returns to London.  For a short while.

He does get rather upset when Alfred _sends a telegram_ about his favourite serial.

TALK TO DOYLE ABOUT SHERLOCK HOLMES STOP

HOLMES CAN’T BE DEAD STOP

TALK TO DOYLE STOP

PLEASE STOP

Seriously.

But... he does make the trip and talk to Doyle.  And resists the urge to ask the man if he is actually Doctor Watson.

And suddenly the peaceful days are gone, and Arthur doesn’t know who did what, but people are shooting and killing each other, and bombs are blowing up _all over the place_ , and some idiot kills Natalya and Ivan is born, and –

The peace is tense.  Arthur spends every second of the negotiations for peace arguing with the various government officials.  He tries, tries _so very hard_ to convince them that Alfred’s Wilson is right, right, _so right_ , but –

They ignore him.  And Alfred.  And Wilson.  And everyone and anyone with the tiniest mite of common sense.

There are blessed few years of peace, with Arthur warning and warning everyone, but Francis waves him off, and _something_ is happening everywhere else.  Thankfully, just as some madman takes over Germany, Arthur finally finds someone in government with half of a brain.

Alfred cheerfully informs him that _this_ president will be just as great as Wilson.

Arthur doubts that, but bombs are falling and _his man_ is in office, (the first time in ages that something like _that_ has happened,) and there are wars to be fought.

The blood and smoke and ash that soaks and coats the earth makes Arthur ill, memories of Ri’s split throat, of his own captivity, of Anan’s slow and painful decline, all filling his mind’s eye as if it were yesterday.

Alfred is loud and boisterous and cheerful, and does his very best to keep spirits high, but Roosevelt _will not_ outwardly interfere with the War, and they were wrong before, _this_ is the War to End All Wars –

Then some Harbour is bombed, and Alfred shows up on his doorstep in uniform.

But it’s still War, and still a misery, and no decent tea or teacakes can be had _anywhere_ , and Britain is denuded of men (and no few women).

And then –

And then –

And then, then, _then –_

The bombs stop.  The shooting stops.  There’s talk, and talk, and _whispers_ –

And Arthur cannot believe his ears, perhaps they are still ringing from those last bombs, because that _can’t be right_ –

“Arthur!  Arthur!  Arthur!  Did you hear?”

Someone is shaking him.

“Arthur, it’s over.”

What.  What is over?  The battle?  The – _why are you shaking me_ –

“Arthur!”

Blood-streaked and utterly grimy, it’s Alfred, beaming brightly like the noonday sun, his normally lovely hair knotted and clumped.

“The war’s over!  We won!”

Still.  That ringing.  Over?  The wars are never over.  The despair is never over.  If it isn’t his mother giving him away, it’s Rome invading, or Basil kidnapping, or Normandy and France being utter _berks_ , or, or, or –

Something soft and damp presses against his lips.

He stopped breathing.

What?

Alfred?

Alfred was – kissing him?

Alfred pulls away, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so _bright_ –

“Arthur.  We _won_.”

Alfred tastes like god-awful coffee and over-sweet peppermints and something _homey_.

It’s the work of a moment to hook his hand into Alfred’s collar, and yank him back forward.

“We won.”

Winning, Arthur discovers, tastes like terrible coffee and over-sweet peppermints.

Winning, Arthur discovers, tastes _wonderful_.

**Author's Note:**

> Llach = "Llew" meaning lion, "oc" as a dimunitive. "Little Lion"  
> Rigantona = Great Queen  
> Aran = Actually Arawn, King of the Underworld  
> Maura = Actually Mórrígan, "Great Queen"  
> Annwn = The Underworld  
> Cymru = Modern-day Wales  
> Albain = Modern-day Scotland  
> Caledonia = Modern-day Scotland  
> Lloer = Moon  
> Basileus = Lord, or King  
> Britannicus = Of Briton  
> Ionnrhi = From "Eira" for Snow, and "Rhi" for King  
> "Ionnrhi becomes Arðrhey becomes Ardaire becomes Artur" = pronunciation slurs, no actual meaning change  
> Skaði = Old Norse Goddess, personification of Scandinavia as a whole, meaning unknown  
> Mora = See Maura  
> Draco = Dragon  
> Georges = "George" in French  
> Hamish = "James," Scottish  
> Ana = Just a respelling of Anna  
> Enrique = "Henry" in Spanish  
> Josef = German form of Joseph  
> Josefina = Spanish and Portuguese feminine form of Joseph  
> Antonio = Spanish form of Anthony.  
> Alfred = "Elf-Council" in Old English  
> Jones = Son of John, a very common surname in Wales  
> Natalya = "Christmas Day" from Late Latin  
> Ivan = Slavic "John"  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> PS. The "F" in Alfred's name stands for "Fechín," which means "Little Wolf." It's in memory of Rigantona.


End file.
